Being a bear is a great thing. Isn’t it?
What, with all that fur, the beard, the ruff ‘n tumble looks, you think we’d be the universal symbol for male masculinity. And, when you’re a furry ball of flesh, you very often find yourself the object of a bit of male attention.
No gripes? Well read on…
With all this fur, there’s the constant shedding. One look at a bear’s bathroom between cleanings will tell the tale. You’d think a sheepdog lived in his abode from what lurks behind door #1 (and #2…etcetera). I’ve seen smaller tumbleweeds on the Great Plains. That, and if we were capable of breastfeeding, we’d be able to floss the kids teeth at the same time. Bears are GREAT multi-taskers!
And speaking of breasts…
I was having a simply smashing conversation with a dude a little while back, and thought at one point that it might be easier to simply engage in some face to face interaction. With this in mind, I invited him to partake in a little Skype time. Silly bear!
What’s been seen can never be unseen.
To begin with, I’m not too photogenic. It takes a lot of time and effort to come up with one portrait that looks somewhat presentable. On a live video feed, one that doesn’t have any form of Photoshop to correct the harsh lighting, I look like a stunt double for one of the Troll(s) in “Lord Of The Rings”. (Should that be ‘? It’s describing a race of fake creatures, but not an individual, this isn’t something that is theirs, rather, a description…am I wrong??? I could be, LOL. )
Why, I could take a mold of my forehead, and sell it to a relief map manufacturer. They’d be able to use the peaks and valleys of my once supple skin to simulate Mozambique or Zimbabwe on a world globe.
Aging isn’t always pretty. For this bear, it’s a constant battle keeping those Botox needles from freeze framing my mug. I have committed to slow disintegration without any help, so I’ll keep fighting to stay this particular course. Granted, I look like a sadistic soul took clay and pummeled it until it roughly resembled a human face. I may not love it, but I’ll deal.
Well, while I’m ruminating about the “Walking Dead” complexion beaming back my way whilst I carry on this electronic conversation, I went to move up in my chair a little, when it happened. Wardrobe malfunction. One I wanted very much to erase.
In short, my house coat opened up, and out popped my left moob!!!
To the uninitiated, Moob = “man boob”. And yes, I got me a fine pair. Jack Nicholson would be so damned jealous.
Part of being a bear is the extra flesh factor. Unless you’re a gym bunny, or blessed with amazing genes, your chest becomes almost bra dependent at some point in your life. Even skinny dudes can get them. But, they’re much more pronounced on a bear body. Add to this, mine tend to rest on top of “Mount Eatmore”. I’m ashamed to say you can barely tell where the chest ends and the stomachs begin. I have 5, and they all need constant attention.
Well, while the winsome gent on the other end seemed to perk right up, and then proceeded to urge me to innerduce him to my male twins, I fairly blanched in horror, and sealed my chest in terrycloth…promising myself 67 punishing lashes later that evening. I still shudder when I think about that time.
Clearly, I haven’t made peace with the aging process ‘cos moobs didn’t just sprout. They were a slow acquisition, one I never really asked for, nor embraced. In saying this, I first realized things weren’t right in Kansas the day I drove over a speed bump. An unusual sensation emanated from underneath my coat. I felt two sides of me bounce. BOUNCE???
At first, I pushed the shock and horror out of my mind’s eye, but then, a couple of days later, I ran down the stairs, and what did I get? Baywatch action. Playtex “Cross Your Continent” action. Udderly horrific bounding up and down action. My feverish mind…it was trying to come to grips with what went down, but my sanity would not allow the truth in.
I was sporting a beary nice set of moobies. Fur and fun now included a set of globes where once firm male pecs resided. My days of sunning on the beach…over, done with, gone!
In the blink of an eye, I became a fur-laden Michelin Man.
One fine day, I finally manned up, and decided to check the evidence up close and personal. So, I bravely approached my mirror, and took off my shirt. What stared back at me was a testament to my love of food, and my obsession with avoiding the gymnasium.
I questioned myself as to why I didn’t notice these protrusions earlier. It truly was a telling moment in the annals of my skewed reality.
That’s when what’s left of my mind went the way of the angels, at least, temporarily.
I guess I got a little too curious. I started to wonder, how “developed” these puppies were. So I started posing. First it was just a hand up underneath, and yep, it rested heavily on it. Then, I did the unthinkable. I put the mirror flat down on the counter top, and peered into it.
I can tell you honestly if you want to keep whatever pride you have left in yourself, DO NOT look downwards at your reflection, lest the following horrors come home to roost in your image.
What were two rounding bags on my chest suddenly morphed into conical shapes with pink cherries on top. My rough complexion hung and sagged into some unrecognizable ogre with hairy titties. It’s clear my male knockers are not the only things prone to gravitational forces.
I damned near knocked myself out when I whipped myself backwards from the looking-glass, and hit the wall with the back of my head. If I was self-conscious before that foray into the land of “can’t believe”…
It suddenly occurred to me what possessed Cher and Joanie Rivers to carve themselves up like a couple of Virginia hams at a fat farm free-for-all. I think we all must have foolishly made the same horrible errors in judgment; one that caused something rational to snap inside. The results of course speak for themselves, for all that remained were small shreds of sanity and a pressing need to make nice with the needles.
I then sat down to contemplate for a bit. I wanted to figure out what I was going to do with what I had bore witness to. The idea that my face, my body, and eventually my mind were all going south sort of set in, and I was looking for options. Perhaps a consult with Jocelyn Wildenstein? Perhaps Kenny Rogers held my answers. I mean, he went from Bear to Asian in one quick slice, no? Surely he would understand my dilemma.
Perhaps if I never shaved again. I could see it now. All you’d see is the tips of my ears, and my eyeballs and forehead. Sure, it’d just about cover up the bags and sags, but you’d never know where my beard ended, and my body began.
I briefly considered going to the gym. Well, then I woke up and had a sammich.
So, in the end, I decided to just let Father Time do a Can-Can across my furry can and jugs. It’s not a pretty solution, but the one thing I never have to worry about is the look of permanent surprise. Add this to the mix; no matter how baggy eyed I get, my smile will continue to animate my face without the use of every muscle in the back of my neck straining to the point of pulling something.
My moobs may not nourish, nor may they hold any appeal to their owner. However, they’re a part of me, as furry and as plush as the rest of my landscape. So…in the grand scheme of things, I’ll stick with being a teddy bear, and embrace the hills and valleys that come with it.
It’s all part of being this bear.